


into your hands i commit my spirit

by Penkindisbestspecibus



Category: Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Existential Crisis, M/M, Misotheism, Revenge, Slow Burn, Spoilers, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2020-09-19 02:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20323957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penkindisbestspecibus/pseuds/Penkindisbestspecibus
Summary: It is the duty of a King to give his vassals reasons for their lives, their battles and their deaths.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're here expecting an author who knows what they're doing you've come to the wrong place
> 
> this is a crazy train and we're all in this together
> 
> CHOO CHOO
> 
> EDIT: Some minor mistakes/typos I missed.

It happens so quickly that he almost doesn’t realise it’s happening at all, like falling asleep bundled in furs by the fire. He almost feels as though he would’ve missed it if he had just blinked at the wrong time, just looked away at the wrong moment. He hadn’t even intended on being present for this, but that bastard Askeladd had insisted he be present (_You’re still the Prince’s bodyguard, Thorfinn_) and some small part of him wonders if even then, he’d already guessed at what might happen. It was hard to say what Askeladd might be thinking or planning at the best of times.

It happens so quickly that he almost doesn’t realise it’s happening at all, caught in the throes of something that might be dream or nightmare. He was hardly listening to the procession of Lords receiving rewards, his attention spread across the fest hall. The sudden silence and then the motion is what draws his attention, and Askeladd’s sword is flashing in the light before his mind can even catch up to the scene.

He’s not even sure why he attacks. He’s not even sure if it was the right decision, the wrong one, he’s not even sure it was a decision, but amidst all the shouting and chaos, his shortswords were in his hands and he was leaping from his seat. The fight, if it can be called as such, is swift, and when his blades sink into his hated foe’s flesh, he could almost swear that the old bastard let it happen.

Askeladd pitched forward, almost as if embracing him, his sword clattering to the ground as it slips from his limp fingers. “Satisfied, boy?” He murmured, and even though Thorfinn can’t see his face, he knows he’s smiling at him, that cruel mocking smile. “What will you live for now… Thorfinn, son of Thors?”

“... Why?” He murmured back, the heavy realisation beginning to dawn on him. “It wasn’t-it _wasn’t_ supposed to be like this...” It was meant to be a duel, honorable and pure. He was meant to surpass Askeladd and defeat him the right and proper way, to demonstrate that all his tricks and cruelty were nothing more than cheap tactics. It wasn’t supposed to be like _this_.

Askeladd slumped a bit further and he knew on some level that it was over.

He’s finally done it. His quest is over. Askeladd is dead at his hands. The weight on his shoulders is gone, but now there’s the weight of Askeladd’s actual body bearing down on him, his mocking silence ringing in his ears. There is none of the cheering, none of the joy he thought would be there. This final achievement, this great avenging, he'd always dreamed of it tasting like honeyed fruits on his tongue so sweet and succulent but all he can taste is cold, bitter ash. His quest is over. The only thing that meant anything to him in his life is gone.

A familiar, powerful hand slapped his back with enough force to make him stumble forward. “Ha! Not a bad kill.” Askeladd’s body slid off his blades, and when Thorfinn looked up, Thorkell’s grinning face beamed back down at him.

The moment of slowness, of stillness, passes and the wheels of time seem to spin faster to make up for their dalliance. There’s talking, there’s motion, but none of it really registers to Thorfinn, not right now. He said some things, moved away, stood by Canute’s side (_You’re still the Prince’s bodyguard, Thorfinn_), and watches as the world continued to turn even though he feels like it should be upending. It’s only when Canute called his name that the spell is broken.

“Thorfinn,” Canute echoed, a concerned frown knitting at his brow, “Are you alright? You’ve been behaving oddly.”

He doesn’t look up from his still bloodied blades. “I killed him,” he said quietly, “I killed Askeladd.”

Canute only arched a brow at him questioningly. It’s not as though Thorfinn is a stranger to death, after all, and the Prince himself has borne personal witness to his undeniable talent for taking lives. “You did,” he said, and neither of them are quite sure what that statement means beyond the fact that it certainly has meaning.

“He let me do it.” The voice is quiet, and not at all like the Thorfinn Canute was only beginning to grow familiar with. "It wasn't... it wasn't _supposed_ to be... he wasn't supposed to _let_ me..." His eyes meet Canute’s again, a bold gesture that might’ve earned a reprisal had he been anyone else. Thorfinn’s gaze is empty, and for a moment Canute thinks he might be dead, that the man who killed Askeladd was gone and only his confused corpse remained. He lowers his gaze again.

He had come to offer Thorfinn a recusal, relieve him of his service and allow him to return home but to do so now would be to send back a body to be buried. Thorfinn is broken, and to relieve him now would be no different from throwing him aside as though he were nothing more than a tool.

The King in Canute knew that all men were tools, and to pretend otherwise was foolishness. If Thorfinn was of no use, then a _King_ would replace him with someone who was. Canute balked at the idea. Thorfinn was not his friend - and Canute knew this because as the Prince of Denmark he had none he could call such a thing - but what he was, Canute did not know. His bodyguard? How was that different from thinking of Thorfinn as a tool? What Thorfinn was… Thorfinn was not his friend, but Thorfinn was the closest thing he had to one. Abandoning him now seemed wrong to him, in some way. It felt too much like something his father would do, pruning away unwanted fruit - and what was the point of all of it, if he were just a mirror of his father? 

No. If Thorfinn was 'unworthy' now, then Canute would simply _make_ him 'worthy'. If the flame within the hearth has sputtered out, he will not abandon it - he will stoke it anew.

“Thorfinn,” he declared quietly, stretching a hand out in offer, and Thorfinn’s gaze snaps to him. “As a King, I will need men I can trust at my side. Become my sword, Thorfinn Karlsefni, son of Thors,” and although he means it as a request it is just as much a command, “I would trust no other to be my Head Thegn.”

Thorfinn stares at the hand mutely. In his mind, he knows to be the Head Thegn of a King was a great honour, but it’s not as though he had ever cared for such things. It was not as though he had anything he cared for in this moment - vengeance upon Askeladd was all he had, and with it gone, what was left?

_You’re still the Prince’s bodyguard, Thorfinn._

He clasped his hand in Canute’s.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorfinn deals with assassins.

It was little more than a week before the first assassin struck.

Canute was surveying a fort on the border, making a small show of his presence to reaffirm his position as the newly crowned King. His retinue was reflective of that, a hardened band of warriors led by the infamous (and if he was honest, somewhat uncreatively nicknamed) Thorkell ‘the Tall’. They were a show of power more than they were guards, and he almost felt like he was walking a dog around but if Thorkell were a dog, he would be a far beastlier hound than Canute had ever witnessed, closer to a bear than a man. If Thorkell were a bear, savage and monstrous, Thorfinn was his hound, always at his heels... and always ready to bite whatever threatened his master.

It was odd, in many ways, seeing Thorfinn now - as Head Thegn and Canute’s primary bodyguard, he had been given something of a makeover. Appearances were important, and it was all well and good for Thorkell to appear savage and unrestrained, but Thorfinn would need to at least project the image of a refined, civilized warrior and so his wild, untamed hair had been painstakingly detangled and combed into a braid by one of the maids, and his loose woollen clothing had been exchanged for chainmail and gambeson. Stranger still, perhaps, was the shift in his expression - for as long as Canute had known Thorfinn, his face had been set in a scowl but now? Now it was… empty. Blank. Softer, in some ways, but colder in others. He almost seemed like a statue, unblinking and unfeeling.

Although nobody would’ve mistaken him for a statue when he _moved_.

The assassin struck without warning (as any good assassin would), lunging from the back of a covered wagon only a handful of paces away from him. It was an opportune moment, with the far more obvious threat of Thorkell too far behind him to interfere, and although Canute was not ignorant of the dangers present in the exercise of power and presence he was currently engaged in, it did not allay the feelings of shock and momentary terror as the man howled “DEATH TO THE DANES!” and bore down on him with bloodlust in his eyes and a dagger in his hands.

Thorfinn stopped him before Canute could even think to react. Every movement was calm and almost unhurried despite its swiftness. One slice removes the man’s hand, and lets the dagger drop harmlessly to the ground. The second is aimed squarely to remove his head from his shoulders.

“_Stop!_”

The man collapsed to his knees, clutching the bleeding stump of his wrist as Thorfinn looked on apathetically. “He was trying to kill you, you know.” Dry sarcasm is the closest thing to an emotion Thorfinn has exhibited in recent memory, and Canute is oddly satisfied to hear it, like watching a flower bloom after its grown from the seed you planted - although Thorfinn is hardly blooming again just yet.

“I am aware of what he was attempting to do, Thorfinn,” he said primly, eyeing the failed assassin with mild distaste, “But he is of no use to me dead. Alive, he may yet divulge the names of his masters.” A man screaming ‘Death to the Danes’ may very well have no master beyond some belief that their martyrdom would somehow serve some good to the English, but Canute is in no rush to deliver death to anyone, even an assassin out for his blood. More than that, he’s in no rush for Thorfinn to be dyed red with blood anymore than he already has been.

His Head Thegn shrugged at him, and stepped off the fallen assassin to allow the other guards (all of whom had reacted shamefully slowly in comparison) to drag him away for treatment and questioning. He wiped his blade on his cloak dipassionately, sheathed it back at his waist, and casually took his place at Canute's side, just a pace or two behind. If one were to ignore the spray of blood that painted his surcoat, it’d be easy to think nothing at all had happened.

Canute turned to face the commander of the fort, some seasoned veteran of his father’s campaign in England who was busy offering apologies and platitudes that meant nothing to him. “Well, Gunnar? Continue,” he commanded, brushing past the scene as though it were nothing more than an annoyance.

It was not the first attempt on Canute’s life. It would not be the last. But with Thorfinn at his side, he had nothing to fear.

* * *

He was in the middle of a discussion with one of his generals when the second attempt on his life was made. The serving girl pouring wine (was she a thrall? Canute did not know) approached with the jug, and as Canute shifted to give her easier access to his goblet, eyes on the general as he listened to him detail the strategic situation, there was a flurry of movement and the sound of pottery shattering on stone floors. He was almost unsurprised to find Thorfinn holding the girl face down against the table.

The knife tumbled out of her fingers and clattered on the floor, and the echoing noise was almost as deafening as the silence that ensued. Canute is the first to recover, and he smoothed his heart over with calm, practiced ease, turning to face the general with an arched brow.

He let the general babble his excuses, studied his expression and his words before raising a dismissive hand. “Enough, Jormun. Hold her until she speaks. We will speak of this in the morning.” He rose to leave, leaving Jormun in cold silence to muse over his mistakes.

Although he hated to admit it, Canute found himself thinking more and more along the lines of ‘What would Askeladd do?’ in situations. The man’s devious cunning could not be denied, and when he found need to predict the movements of the snakes in his court, Askeladd’s perspective (as it were imagined in his own mind) was invaluable. An attempt to kill the King in one’s own camp? It would be an amateur’s ploy, and although Canute held no trust for the man, he held Jormun in enough esteem to rule out such a simple mistake. If Jormun had sent the assassin, he was far more likely to have attempted to do so to save Canute’s life himself (or have one of his men do so). But the man’s shock had been genuine to his estimation. He doubted he was the one behind this.

Although the point remained that his lax security had allowed such an opening in the first place. He’d let him stew for the night, before declaring judgement come morning.

It was only as his own, personal dinner was being served did something strike him. “Thorfinn,” He said, glancing over to where his trusted companion is busy tearing into a leg of mutton

“Yeah?” Thorfinn was at least exhibiting more energy and enthusiasm for life than he was a week ago. He was still a far cry from the… _eager_ eater Canute remembered him as, but when his gaze met Canute’s, there was at least a flicker of life to them now.

It’s enough for Canute at least, that he does not yet feel the need to address the numerous flaws in Thorfinn’s etiquette. Although, if he was being honest, there was something vaguely refreshing about Thorfinn’s frank, direct address. “You didn’t kill the serving girl.”

Thorfinn, at least, swallowed before speaking. “Should I have?” He asked, and there was so _little_ concern in the words. He may as well have been speaking about releasing a fish he caught for all it seemed to weigh on him.

“No,” Canute replied, as he broke a hunk of his bread off, “I much preferred that you didn’t.”

Thorfinn stared at him in confused silence for a long moment before turning back to his own dinner. “Tch.”

It was such a familiar sound to Canute, especially compared to how Thorfinn had been behaving as of late, that he couldn’t stop the small smile that spread across his face.

* * *

The third attempt on his life isn’t an assassin at all, and comes only days after the encounter with the serving girl.

A skirmish broke out as his retinue was preparing to bathe in the nearby river - the English were cunning foes in that way, and had lain in wait until the majority of his forces had disarmed and began to disrobe before attacking. The strategist in Canute was amused they had not waited until _all_ of his forces had disarmed. The King in him was simply infuriated that they had _dared_.

For his part, his ever faithful hound simply kicked a shield up into his hands and used it (and his body) to cover him from the hail of arrows.

“TO ARMS, MEN!” The command was hardly necessary, really. His soldiers weren’t so lost without him that when attacked, they would stand dumbly and let it happen. It was only that there was little else for Canute to do _but_ shout simple commands for as he was now, he did not have the tactical acumen to give more useful, detailed orders nor the skill at arms to enter the fray himself. He resolved himself to rectify this failure. The Danes would not support a weak King, after all.

A handful of the ambushers seemed to realise his importance, as they rushed towards him, shouting battle cries in English.

“Hold this,” Thorfinn muttered, handing him the shield before advancing forward to meet them, and in the process, leaving Canute standing somewhat awkwardly with a shield he knew how to use only by virtue of the fact that it was so painstakingly simple even a child could figure it out.

Thorfinn was only a foot or two away from him, and the Englishmen rushed both towards him and past him, in a clear attempt to tie him up and simply bypass him. It was a valiant attempt that might have succeeded had Thorfinn been an ordinary bodyguard. Even though he was well aware of Thorfinn’s capabilities by now, Canute found himself impressed all the same when he was upon the first man in the blink of an eye.

He weaved past the spear, before striking at his arm with a loose fist in a way that bent it a painfully sharp angle, and the follow up kick sent the man down to the ground in agony. An open palm slammed another’s jaw shut with enough force to lift them off the ground several inches, and a spinning backhand cracked the last soldier’s jaw to the side, causing them to collapse in a heap.

It was over in a heartbeat, and by the time Thorfinn calmly and casually took the shield back from Canute, the battle itself is over as well, the remainders of the ambushers retreating in a hurried rout.

“You didn’t kill any of them either,” Canute noted, eyeing the broken and groaning forms of his would-be killers.

Thorfinn frowned at him, and Canute cannot help but feel this is another victory in his quiet, personal mission to bring life back to his companion. “Did you want me to kill them?” he asked, “Because I was under the impression you didn’t. Make up your mind.”

He heard a shocked muttering from one of the soldiers at Thorfinn’s brazen address, but Canute merely lets the corner of his mouth tug into the beginnings of a smile. “I was merely making an observation. Please continue refraining from killing them where possible.”

* * *

The fourth time an assassin strikes, they’re not even after Canute.

It’s been some months since Canute took the throne over the body of his late father. His position has solidified and with that newfound stability, the attempts at killing him seemed to have tapered off - enough, at least, that in the heart of the Danelaw, he felt there was little risk in taking a moment to go fishing alone. Or at least, alone with Thorfinn, who clung to him like a shadow but in many ways, Canute would feel somewhat adrift without his presence. Ragnar had been the sole fixture of his life for some time, and when he had died, all there was Askeladd, Thorkell and Canute. Thorkell was... Thorkell, and Askeladd had sacrificed himself (but even then, to rely on Askeladd seemed wrong in Canute's heart) but Thorfinn alone had remained with him since then, and it was... a comfort in many ways. It felt like when the pressure was rising, when he needed to breathe, he could always rely on Thorfinn to be there, a pillar he could lean on.

Fishing was a past time he was rarely able to indulge in as of late, so it felt quite relaxing to be able to sit by the shore of a lake and cast a line out, waiting for the bite of hungry pike or trout. He had often taken the time to fish (one of the few pasttimes he enjoyed that was sufficiently 'proper' for someone of his station), but when he had done so, it had always been with Ragnar. He hated to think of Thorfinn as merely a replacement, but there was no denying that his presence allowed him to feel more at ease. Without him, it would've felt too lonely.

Thorfinn, for his part, had a vague air of disgruntled confusion about himself, clearly not sure of the appeal of fishing - or perhaps he was just annoyed he had to dig through the ground for some worms. He hadn't refused or even made much of a fuss at the order, but he had definitely had a brief expression of annoyance. Canute might've dug them himself, but prodding Thorfinn like this was good for his development (and maybe it was a little amusing).

Canute had just hooked something and began to angle it in when Thorfinn suddenly burst into motion beside him just in time to avoid the bolt that sailed through where he had been seated. Idly, Canute felt a spike of annoyance when the bolt splashed into the lake. It was going to drive off the fish, and potentially ruin the one free moment to relax he’s had in weeks.

The would-be assassin was at least prepared for this result, and dropped the crossbow to draw an arming sword. They only had enough time to make a single, futile slash before they were disarmed and laid out on the floor with a solid series of strikes to his upper body.

By this point, Canute can’t even bring himself to pretend to be surprised that the engagement is already over. Thorfinn was stronger than he looked for someone who had not yet reached twenty summers, but his most impressive ability was in his speed and dexterity. In the time it took most men to draw their weapons, Thorfinn could have his blades at their throats, waiting for the order to cut them open. Although Thorfinn did not seem particularly interested in using his blades, given they were still in their sheathes, but that at least, Canute could chalk up to his own command.

“Does he still have his senses?”

Thorfinn nudged the limp assassin with a foot. There was no response. “No. Knocked them right out of him.”

“Pity. It would’ve been useful to question him.” And they didn’t bring any rope either, only some twine to hang the fish. Taking him back would be an abominable risk to both of them… “Dig a hole and bury him up to his neck.”

Although he seemed vaguely confused, Thorfinn nonetheless carried his order out without a word of complaint, leaving Canute to pull in his line, sans bait. He clucked his tongue in mild disappointment before hooking another worm and casting it out once more. Even if the fish haven’t been scared away, there was little else to do to pass the time for now.

“... Is it annoying, dealing with all these assassins?”

Canute found himself celebrating internally. Thorfinn was asking unprompted questions now! A few more weeks and he might be a functioning person again. “I have been dealing with the threat of assassins since I was a boy.”

Thorfinn scowled at him, an expression so achingly familiar Canute’s surprised he feels so pleased to see it again. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Right. Speaking plainly was best with Thorfinn, and it was something he honestly appreciated - it was just hard to remember that he didn’t need to couch his language sometimes. “Yes. It does get frustrating. Once I consolidate my power more thoroughly, the attempts should taper off.” He paused. “Although why an assassin was targeting you, I’m at a loss to explain.”

“... Me?”

He hadn’t realised? Canute had only recently noticed himself, if he were honest. “Yes. You. He aimed at you, after all - and I doubt he mistook you for me.” He might not be wearing his crown, but the difference in attire was still stark and obvious. If the assassin had expected Thorfinn to be enough of a danger that he could defend Canute against a sneak attack at range (and to be fair, he was), they would've surely expected him to be capable of dodging one directed at himself - ergo, Thorfinn had been the target from the beginning.

Thorfinn blinked, and glanced back over at the unconscious figure. “_Me?_” He echoed.

“Yes, Thorfinn, you. I suppose its the result of being my Head Thegn - there are those who might seek to replace you.”

He was silent for a moment, almost pensive. But then he shrugged and cast his line back out. “They can try.”

Canute studied his face for a moment later, before turning back to watch his line for any bites. They can try all they want, he mused, but Thorfinn isn’t going anywhere any time soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Physical contact is something neither of them are very accustomed to - not like this, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Don't have much to say here, unfortunately. Been slowly plotting out a general outline, ideas for how things will progress and where they'll progress.
> 
> I spent... a _ridiculous_ amount of time researching both Viking culture and architecture for this chapter. Specifically, I was trying to figure out what went in Viking soap (as that would affect how they smelled), and what the floor plan of an era-appropriate keep in a Motte and Bailey might look like. 
> 
> Unfortunately, if you google 'motte and baily keep floor plan', 90% of what you get are those diagrams where they just go 'Here is the moat, here's the walls, here's the keep'. and I! KNOW! WHAT A GOD DAMN MOTTE AND BAILEY IS STRUCTURED LIKE! JUST! GIVE ME! THE DAMN FLOOR PLANS!
> 
> Okay, that's out of my system.
> 
> Please enjoy Chapter 3, because it features a good deal of fluffiness to offset the general angst of Everything Else.

The sound of wood clacking against steel filled the air, accompanied by the quieter sounds of rustling cloth and grass as well as the occasional grunt of effort. There was a small dull thud as a sword fell to the ground and a slightly louder thud as its owner followed it. Canute scrambled to get back up, but Thorfinn’s wooden ‘dagger’ was already in his face.

“Dead,” he declared simply, stepping away to allow the King to rise up again, twirling the wooden toy between his fingers with experienced ease.

Canute staggered to his feet, trying not to let his heavy breathing be too obvious. Thorfinn had yet to break a sweat, and they’d been at this exercise for half a day now - although it had been a week in total since Canute had begun his training. If it could be called training. As it were right now, all he was doing was throwing himself at Thorfinn until he was inevitably defeated. “Could you at least give me some guidance? What, exactly, am I doing wrong?” He griped, reaching down to pick his sword back up.

Thorfinn tapped the wooden dagger on his chin. “... Everything?” He offered.

He couldn't help the surge of indignation that built up within him. “E-Everything?! That doesn’t help me at all!”

At that, Thorfinn only answered with a slight shrug, twirling the dagger around again as he eyed the way Canute was leaning on his sword. “Need a break, Princess?” he taunted, a lazy smirk playing at his lips. It was a very… Askeladd thing to do, and for a brief moment, the thought gnawed at Canute before he pushed it aside.

Canute’s eyebrow twitched. “I’ll show _you_ Princess!” He shouted, rushing at him once more with the sword readied.

Thorfinn just smirked and made a motion with his wrist that Canute took too long to recognise as him throwing the 'dagger'. The wooden tip bounced off his forehead, and the King halted his charge in shock, far too late to realise that Thorfinn had already moved in for the ‘kill’.

He had gripped Canute’s comparatively slender wrist and twisted it to the side and when he tried to step back, he only ended up backing up into Thorfinn’s chest. An arm snaked under Canute’s own and across his chest, and the tip of a finger pressed against the soft, delicate underside of his chin, brushing up against the barest beginnings of a beard. “Dead,” Thorfinn murmured right under the shell of his ear, so close Canute could feel his warm breath washing over the skin.

Canute didn’t say anything, but he could feel a heat rising to his cheeks as he swallowed.

Thorfinn released him, allowing him to stumble away, and Canute tried to force the flush from his cheeks. “You did better. Actually came at me with intent to kill. But you keep staring right where you’re aiming. It’s too easy to predict.”

It took a few moments for Canute to get his breathing back under control, but when he rose up he did so with all the dignity of his station (if one were to politely ignore the still-fading flush to his face). “And, pray tell, where should I be looking then?” He said primly, arms folded over his chest.

Thorfinn only shrugged in response once again. “I don’t know,” he said simply, “Just keep trying until you get it, I guess. That’s what I did.”

At that, Canute could only stare at him. “You just… kept trying?” He echoed, with the most confused, surprised expression Thorfinn had ever seen on his face. “... against people who were trying to kill you?”

“Mostly,” he admitted, with a casual indifference that the statement most certainly did _not_ warrant. "Come on. If you can stand, you can try again.”

Canute made an annoyed grumbling noise that was at once too soft and too gentle to be any kind of threatening. Rushing in angrily wasn't going to help. If he had any chance of victory, it would be through careful planning. He narrowed his eyes, assessing Thorfinn’s loose stance quietly. In just about every way, Thorfinn was the superior fighter - be it experience, skill, or sheer physical prowess, Canute was outclassed. But he wasn’t hopelessly outclassed. Winning was a distant dream, but more realistically, he could land a blow on Thorfinn if he played his cards right.

He tried to keep his gaze somewhere neutral - Thorfinn’s chest and face seemed safe, although looking at his casual smirk was making him burn with embarrassment - and rushed forward again, sword held aloft.

Thorfinn moved, just as before, the very picture of deadly grace., but this time Canute was ready for him (or at least, as ready as he could ever be). When he moved to parry Canute’s swing, there was the briefest moment of shock on his face as he simply let go of the weapon in favour of tackling Thorfinn to the ground.

(He was going to savour the memory of Thorfinn’s shocked expression for a long time)

The struggle on the ground, however, was short lived. Although Canute was about a hand taller than him, he had none of Thorfinn’s definition, and before long, his wrists were pinned to either side of him by rough hands. Up close, his senses were suddenly _dominated_ by him, the smell of oak and leather filling his mind and the weight of Thorfinn straddling his stomach. He loomed over him, with an expression somewhere between impressed and amused, that same smirk playing at his lips. Canute found himself forcefully reminded of just how young Thorfinn was (how young they _both_ were) as he looked up at him, and although he had known his eyes were brown, he’d never seen them in such detail, and the warm, honeyed shade was somehow richer than he’d expected.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever in his mind, but it snapped to reality as Thorfinn snickered at him. “A good attempt,” He admitted, still not releasing him, “But dropping your sword only helps if you have a backup weapon - not much of a warrior without a weapon.”

Canute let out a small huff, and tried to shift a little underneath Thorfinn’s weight. “Must I try to kill you? Is it not enough to simply disarm you?” He met Thorfinn’s gaze with his own, piercing blue against honeyed brown, “Is that not what _you_ do, after all?”

Something flashed across Thorfinn’s face, and although he can’t quite read the expression, he knew his words had some effect on him. His eyes had a distant look to them, and Canute’s fairly sure he’s lost in thought.

Which is all well and good except _Thorfinn is still on top of him_.

…

Logically, Canute knew it would be easy to just order him off of him. He knew Thorfinn wouldn’t disobey, and it’d be that simple. What he didn’t know is why he didn’t just… do it. On one hand, it’s not as though Thorfinn’s presence is _uncomfortable_ exactly, but on the other, it’s hardly proper. The simple, obvious thing to do is to just tell him to get off him and yet - _and yet_ \- every time he went to do it, he just... stopped. He doesn't want to get Thorfinn off of him, but he couldn’t yet figure out why until it hit him all at once.

_When was the last time he had been held by another human?_

In his life, the only person who ever showed him kindness - true, genuine affection - was Ragnar. He held his hand when he was young, hugged him close at times but even then, such moments had grown rarer and rarer as he grew and now... Ragnar was long dead now.

This was the closest thing he’d had to an embrace in what felt like an eternity. For all its roughness and aggression, for the unspoken promise of violence and power inherent to being pinned (the weakness and submission a King should never expose to an underling), he… liked it. Thorfinn’s clean, oaken scent, the warmth and weight of his body, even the battle-scarred fingers wrapping against the soft skin of his wrists. Maybe he was just secure in the knowledge that his loyal thegn wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe he just missed the warmth of another human being that much. But for now, he was content to just let things be.

Thorfinn did, eventually, get off of him after a small minute. If he’d realised the sheer impropriety of his actions, he didn’t show it. Then again, it would probably take Canute beating him around the head with it to make him realise the impropriety of just about everything he did.

He didn’t plan on it any time soon.

* * *

The bitter cold of the Danelaw reminded Thorfinn entirely too much of home. ‘Home’ was a distant memory, of burning hearths and huddled nights, full of a bittersweetness he could scarcely stand thinking about. In the rare moments he thought about returning, he would find himself wondering what he would do. What he would say. He used to imagine returning home as the glorious avenger, with Askeladd’s head as a trophy. Welcomed back with open arms and cheering voices.

Now? Now he doesn’t think he could face them. Not the way he is, not with what he’s done. His failure to actually avenge his father weighs on him almost as much as everything he’s done to get to this point - everything that was ultimately for nothing. So he tries not to think about it. He focuses on his duties, his tasks, his future because the past is too painful.

As if answering that very thought, Canute stumbled out of his quarters with a tired yawn.

“... Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” He certainly looked like he’d much rather be asleep - or at the very least, as though he was asleep just a few seconds ago.

Canute made a tired grumbling noise that might have been a word or two if he had bothered to open his mouth. Instead, he slumped down on the wooden bench just in front of the hearthfire, right next to Thorfinn. “C’dn’t sl’p…” He mumbled, the words slurred and half-formed.

He just grunted in response. He was his bodyguard, not his babysitter, so if Canute was having trouble sleeping, he wasn’t going to get him a cup of warm sheep’s milk and sing him a lullaby.

(Ylva used to do that, and the memory of her smiling face brought a pang to his heart he quelled almost immediately)

Canute, for his part, didn’t seem aware of Thorfinn’s inner turmoil, and simply yawned again, covering his mouth with a dainty hand. ‘Dainty’ was perhaps the wrong word to use now, given the beginnings of calluses were forming on his hands. With a few more months, he might even be a respectable warrior. When it became clear he didn’t seem intent on saying on anything, they settled into a familiar scene. After all, it was hardly like Thorfinn was going to break the silence.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t realise when Canute had slipped back into sleep - he probably would not have been able to tell at all, were it not for the fact that he had slumped to the side, head resting on his shoulder with his long blonde hair spilling over in a fine curtain.

He nearly jolted in surprise, but he managed to restrain himself before he jostled him. Canute seemed so… peaceful now. The serious countenance he’d been wearing had melted away into tranquility, the lines smoothed away into unblemished skin. There were the beginnings of a man underneath the softness, fat that would be burned away, strength waiting to be unearthed, but in this moment, he seemed so incredibly gentle.

He found himself reaching to brush away a lock of hair before he even realised it, fingers caught in mid air before they could make contact.

… What is he doing? Had he just been about to… why?

As though some sudden shift occurred in his mind, he’s suddenly all too aware of the heat of Canute’s body pressed up against his side, the way the fire’s light framed his features and the faint scent of the herbs used in his soaps. He’s overcome with the strangest feeling, his heart leaping into his throat where it’s caught and refuses to leave, and he’s frozen in place.

What should he do? _What should he do?_ The thought ran through his head in a constant loop, turning like a waterwheel at the mouth of a rushing river. He doesn’t want to move in case he wakes Canute because that would be… bad? He’s not sure why but he _knows_ he doesn’t want him to wake up. Seeing Canute so peaceful, so tranquil was…

This time, he doesn’t stop himself from brushing away the lock of hair. _There,_ some quiet part of his mind whispers,_ that’s better._ He let himself watch Canute for a few minutes longer, feeling as though he were indulging in something he shouldn’t (but he still can’t place exactly _what_). He knows on some level that he has to do something- if nothing else, he has to go to sleep himself, and as oddly tempting as the idea of just doing so right there and now is, he’d still rather do it in an actual bed.

He has to move, sooner or later, and although it filled him with a strange disappointment, he does. Slowly, gently, with more care and concern than he ever thought he had within him (certainly more care and concern than he can ever remember having), he shifted an arm around him and then another underneath. Canute isn’t exactly light, but Thorfinn didn’t find much trouble in carrying him slowly but surely towards his (thankfully, still open) door.

It’s only as he laid Canute down into his bed, going so far as to tuck him in with the fur blankets that he realised he was behaving _exactly_ like the babysitter he said he wasn’t. Somehow, the thought doesn’t bother him as much as he felt it should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of theming the chapters, and if it isn't obvious, this one is physical contact.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canute learns something about Thorfinn. Thorfinn learns something about Canute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i put more research into this stupid fic then i ever did any kind of actual schoolwork which probably says something about me
> 
> please enjoy chapter 4! feat. drunk canute being more forthright with his feelings than thorfinn can handle.

Thorfinn, Canute realised quietly, was surprisingly good at Hnefatafl.

He’d suggested the game partly as a way to pass some of his free time but also to sharpen and test Thorfinn’s wit and tactics - there was more to being Head Thegn than just protecting Canute from all who would mean him harm after all (although that was arguably the most important duty). Thorfinn would be expected to command forces, oversee engagements, and handle his retinue of personal guards and warriors, so a sharp mind was vital and what better way to sharpen it then a game of strategy? And maybe, just maybe, he was hoping to be able to beat Thorfinn at something given that victory in their training fights was still a distant dream.

Except victory in even _this_ was proving harder won than he had expected. Which was not to say that he thought Thorfinn a lackwit - he would never have appointed him to his role if he had held such an opinion of him. He just hadn’t expected him to be so damn good at the game.

As befitting his position, Thorfinn was the ‘Defender’ in the game, and although his strategy was decidedly more offensive than Canute was used to, it had proven effective at culling his numbers, and before long, he had his King on the border edges. “I’ve escaped,” He said simply, leaning back with that frustrating little smirk he was so fond of using.

“So you have,” Canute replied calmly, smothering his shock and frustration. He reached out to sweep up the pieces, shifting them back to their starting positions. “Another round.”

Thorfinn made a small noise but the glint in his eyes was taunting him. “As you wish, your Highness.” Of course the most polite thing he’d ever said to Canute was a deliberate tease, but he didn’t mind. These little private moments were a time to relax - to lower the face he was forced to show the world, the dignified and resolute king. When he was alone with Thorfinn he ceased to be the King of England and just became _Canute_.

As he played, he began to attack Thorfinn from an entirely different angle as well - via means of conversation. “Thorfinn,” he began simply, “I did not take you for such an avid player of Hnefatafl.”

“I’m not.” At Canute’s raised eyebrow, Thorfinn made his move and then elaborated. “There wasn’t a lot to do in the winter. So I played a lot of Hnefatafl.”

Canute wondered if it were simply that Thorfinn had played so much of the game that he had become so sharp at it, or whether it was just that Thorfinn was, despite his rough appearance, simply that cunning to begin with. It was a stark reminder that despite everything, Canute knew so little of him. “I see. Where are you from?”

He didn’t respond immediately, too focused on the arrangement of pieces before he decided to capture one of Canute’s. "Iceland," he said offhandedly, leaning back to assess the board.

Iceland? He wouldn't have placed it, himself. "I have heard tales of Iceland, but never visited myself. What is it like?"

"It was cold," he began quietly, almost distantly, "But... drier. The grass was soft and green, the trees were thick. When the snow was heavy, we'd stay indoors with the animals, or go out to the hot spring."

A hot spring? Canute had heard of them, of the lakes and ponds that seemed to heat themselves from unseen fires deep in the earth. "Do you miss it?"

He paused, long enough that even if Canute hadn’t been paying attention, he would’ve noticed. “... Yes,” Thorfinn answered after that long moment, continuing with the move he had clearly been about to make. “I am.”

There was a longing in those words that Canute could not remember ever seeing from Thorfinn, so he chose his next words with careful trepidation. “How are you finding England then?”

He relaxed almost immediately, and Canute knew it was the right decision. “Cold, wet and boring,” he declared simply, moving one of his soldiers.

Canute gave him a wry smile. “That’s a pity, because I’m afraid you’re going to be spending a lot of time here.” He slid a soldier along the board to block off a potential escape route.

He was a little too amused by the scowl on Thorfinn’s face. Thorfinn himself flicked a glance up at Canute, before shifting another of his soldiers. “At least the company’s not that bad,” he muttered, so quiet Canute almost didn’t hear him.

A smile found its way onto his face. He’d see if Thorfinn still believed that when he finally defeated him.

* * *

When he cornered Thorfinn’s King in the castle at last, he had let out a triumphant shout and nearly knocked the board over in his haste.

It was perhaps one of the first times he’d ever heard Thorfinn genuinely laughing. It was light, airy, almost delicate, sounding like it had come from a completely different person.

He wanted to hear it more.

* * *

Thorfinn hated feasts. The promise of plentiful food was not much to sway him, given the fact that it was tied to free flowing drink - and if Vikings were an insufferable bunch of jackasses sober… The fact that the one feast he allowed himself to be dragged to had not made a good impression might have something to do with it as well.

Nonetheless, Canute had ordered him to attend. Well. He hadn’t ordered him per se, not in the sense that he said the words ‘I order you to be present’. Or even just the word 'order'. He’d… just sort of asked if Thorfinn was looking forward to the Jul feasting, and Thorfinn had just grunted. That was about the extent of their communication on the matter. So whilst it wasn’t an explicit order, he was clearly expected to be present as Canute’s Thegn, so that's why he was there.

Nothing more, nothing else.

He had been seated to Canute's right, Thorkell at the King's left, and from their table, they had an excellent view of the festivities. An excellent view of a bunch of rowdy, drunk idiots getting drunker. Not for the first time, Thorfinn questioned how the Danish had ever survived as a people.

The drunken, deafening revelry was not the current cause for his concerns though. No, his concerns were focused on Canute, as they mostly had been since he had become his Head Thegn. He hadn’t imagined Canute, of all people, would give him much cause for concern in a feast like this, but he had rapidly learned two things. Firstly, that Canute refused to show weakness in the face of his vassals, even if that meant accepting Thorkell’s challenge to a drinking contest. Secondly, was that Canute could actually hold his drink surprisingly well.

The third thing he learned, rather belatedly and after it was much too late to do anything about it, was that Canute was a very clingy drunk.

“S’really soft,” mumbled the King, his face buried in Thorfinn’s hair. Canute was leaning on him for support as he tried (and failed) to urge him towards his quarters where he could at least be a drunken idiot without embarrassing himself. Unfortunately for Thorfinn, Canute was not being very cooperative, and was dragging his feet (almost quite literally) in favour of draping himself over his Thegn, which might not have been so bad if Thorfinn had not been a good few heads shorter than him.

“Come on Princess,” he grumbled, “Not that much further now.” It’s not as though Canute was heavy - the King had a lean, slender build, not quite the thickset form of a Viking Warrior and not the soft, plump one of a merchant or noble. Soft perhaps, but with a growing firmness to him. Some part of him was pleased to know that the training was actually paying off, however slowly.

The rest of him was trying to ignore the unfamiliar feeling of Canute’s body heat pressing up against him, a task growing increasingly difficult as the King insisted on burying his face _right up_ against Thorfinn’s neck.

“Not a Princess,” Canute murmured, his breath washing over the bare skin of his neck in burning waves. “‘M a man.”

Thorfinn didn’t bother restraining the snort - he’d never held his tongue around the King before, he wasn't going to start just because he was drunk. “Uh-huh. You’re the prettiest man I’ve ever seen.” He’s not really sure if he meant it as an insult - most Danes would probably take it as one, and he certainly delivered the words with no small amount of snark. It’s just that Canute _is_ the prettiest man he’s ever seen. He remembered hearing the others compare him to Freyja, and whilst he’s never cared much for the gods, he thought it was an apt enough comparison.

Canute is silent against him for a few moments, before he murmured right against Thorfinn’s ear in a voice so soft and quiet he almost didn’t hear him even with the proximity. “You… think I’m pretty?”

The way Canute sounded was odd, full of emotions and feelings Thorfinn couldn’t begin to recognise. So he just grunted in response and shifted Canute a little so he wasn’t as uncomfortable, hoping to just ignore whatever was going on in his head and move on.

Except Canute had other ideas. “_You’re_ pretty,” he declared, with the kind of triumphant tone of someone who had just secured utmost victory.

The wise decision would’ve been to just ignore Canute and move on, but Thorfinn has never been one for wise decisions. “I am not,” he snapped, “You’re the pretty one.”

“Nuh uh. You’re prettier than me.”

He reached out to open the door to Canute’s quarters, relieved to have the end of their journey in sight. Although he’s stronger than he looked, carrying an entire human being (well, most of one) was still a tiring exercise and it hadn’t exactly been a short journey from feast hall to quarters. “I’m not pretty. _You_ are, Princess.”

Canute huffed, and his arms squeezed tighter around Thorfinn’s neck. “Fine,” he muttered, with an almost sullen tone, “You’re not pretty.”

“Better,” Thorfinn grunted, pulling Canute towards the King’s bed. It was a lot grander than anything Thorfinn had personally used before, but that was probably to be expected, all covered in pillows and soft blankets.

“You’re _handsome_.”

He’s not really sure that’s better, but if he disagrees, Canute will probably sit there and try to argue further. Although calling it arguing is probably a bit much. “Yes. I am very handsome and you are a dumbass who had too much to drink.”

“‘S Thorkell’s fault. He’s the… the dumbass.” He got the distinct impression the King was pouting. It was strange hearing him say something so coarse as 'dumbass'... or even so blatantly insulting someone like that, even if they weren't present.

“Uh huh,” he said simply, attempting to dislodge Canute from his form and dump onto the bed “If you say so, Princess.”

Canute clung to him stubbornly, arms tight around his neck as he swung forward. The movement pulled Thorfinn down with him, causing him to fall awkwardly on top of the King. His gaze pinned Thorfinn’s, an intense burning there as he scowled. “Call me King,” he ordered, and there was little trace of the drunk idiot save for the hazy flush to his cheeks and the unmistakable smell of wine on his breath. Though the heat of his gaze was unbearable, Thorfinn couldn't make himself look away.

“... My King.” He conceded the small, petty fight before it began, mostly because it was late and he was _tired_. Any other time he might’ve drawn it out just to tease Canute, but if giving in will let him go and sleep in his own bed, then he’ll do it.

The King seemed extremely pleased by his submission, beaming in almost imperious way. He does not, however, let Thorfinn go, and if anything, only tightened his grip further. “_My_ thegn,” he declared quietly, pulling Thorfinn down against him like he was cuddling a child’s doll. There was a similar possessiveness to the motion, with an equally determined refusal to let go.

“H-hey! Let go of me, damn it!” Thorfinn not-quite yelled, struggling in Canute’s grip. He knew for a fact that the King shouldn’t be this strong - he’d never demonstrated this kind of power in all their training matches. Canute had been holding out on him. It was the only possible explanation for why he couldn’t get out.

It definitely had nothing to do with the familiar, comfortable warmth of being held in a cozy, toasty bed.

Canute said nothing except some half-mumbled words, and Thorfinn could feel his breathing evening out into peaceful slumber despite all of his struggling and complaining - whether the days events had finally worn him down, or if he had just succumbed to the drink at last, Thorfinn didn’t know.

What was increasingly clear was that he wasn’t getting out of this any time soon. At least he had shut the door on his way in - the last thing Thorfinn needed or wanted was for someone to see him in this state. He sighed, letting his head fall against Canute’s arm. “Stupid King,” he mumbled, letting his eyes slip shut.

He’d just rest his eyes a little bit and deal with Canute in a moment. That was all.

* * *

Canute woke up after what had been one of the best night's sleep he’d had in recent memory, although he couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something. He had little recollection of the night’s events, and when he pressed Thorfinn for details, his thegn had been more reticent than usual.

“You were drunk, I took you to your bed,” was all he would say. A plausible enough chain of events, and normally Canute wouldn’t be suspicious (well, suspicious of Thorfinn. Everyone else was fair game.) except Thorfinn steadfastly refused to look at him every time he answered.

* * *

A few days after the Jul feast (well, one of many Jul feasts), a messenger from the Jomsvikings came, garbed in their traditional uniform. Thorfinn couldn’t see his face very clearly, but he seemed weathered and worn with a cold edge to him.

He bowed low as he was allowed forward to address the King. “I am Vargr, son of Olaf, your Highness, and I have come bearing a missive for Thorfinn Karlsefni, son of Thors.”

Canute arched a brow calmly, giving Thorfinn a disinterested glance that was full of more interest and concern than one would guess. “And that missive is?”

The messenger bowed again, shallower this time. “Sigvaldi, Chieftain of the Jomsvikings, wishes to welcome Thorfinn Karlsefni, son of Thors to Jomsborg and meet with him.” He paused for a moment, and Thorfinn could see his gaze flick over to where Thorkell was standing at Canute’s other side. “... this invitation is also extended to Thorkell, and all transgressions pardoned in light of your service to his Highness.”

“Ha! Siggy’s just mad I beat his warriors.” Thorkell leaned forward to grin at Thorfinn, his remaining eye lighting up with the promise of mischief. And to Thorkell, mischief was usually violent, so Thorfinn did not think this was a good sign at all. “You should accept. Siggy’s probably dying to meet you, Thorfinn.”

Thorfinn looked away. “Tch. I don’t see why I should bother,” he muttered.

Canute drummed his fingers against the throne’s armrest, ignoring the messenger for th e moment just as his most trusted advisors had. “Why is the Chieftain of the Jomsvikings interested in meeting Thorfinn?” The question was directed at Thorkell, but the glance made it clear that he was more concerned with Thorfinn.

“‘Cause his mother is Siggy’s daughter - which makes Thorfinn his grandson, and my great-nephew.”

It was fortunate that Canute had a long life of practicing how to control his reactions, or he might’ve done more than just let out a small “Hm,” in response. Thorfinn and Thorkell were related? He couldn’t see it. The two were like night and day - loud, boisterous and eponymously tall Thorkell versus quiet, reserved, and a little on the short side Thorfinn. The only thing they really had in common was blonde hair and a talent for fighting, but even the way they fought was different. Thorkell overpowered his enemies with raw strength (admittedly tempered with tactical acumen and skill at arms), and Thorfinn relied on agility and precision.

Perhaps more important was the revelation that Thorfinn was of noble descent. A bloodline like that would at least allay some of the criticisms his appointment still brought…

“We will accept Sigvaldi’s gracious invitation,” Canute announced, cutting both of his thegns off as they began to bicker.”

There was a brief moment of silence. Canute knew he had not been explicitly invited, but Sigvaldi could hardly refuse him as a King and member of the Danish royalty, especially as he had invited his most trusted, powerful advisors - did he expect Canute to leave himself vulnerable?

Besides. He was interested in seeing whether he could leverage Thorfinn’s relation into stronger ties with the Jomsvikings...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunk Canute isn't clingy, he's just unfiltered and doing all the things he normally stops himself from doing. I was tempted to do more of a scene where he's insulting random people and Thorfinn's just going 'OKAY TIME FOR BED BYE EVERYONE BYE BYE OKAY LETS GO' whilst Canute talks shit to some random nobles.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jomsborg is not all Thorfinn imagined it might be - but then, it'd probably help if he imagined it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not entirely happy with this chapter but it was taking a while and i was beginning to worry if i didn't finish it now i'd never finish it
> 
> I spent way too long trying to figure out when Thorfinn finds out Floki had his father killed, and I'm pretty sure it turns out he never did? At least, not until the Baltic Sea War. I don't know.

Thorfinn wasn’t really sure how to feel about all of this. It wasn’t as though he often had to really think about what he was feeling or how to feel about things. Things in his life were, for the most part, quite simple. Askeladd murdered his father, so he hated him and sought vengeance. The people he killed were his enemies - he didn’t hate them, but that was just the way things were. Vikings, as a whole, were loud, annoying and _ stupid _ brutes, so he hated them as well. Canute was… well, his feelings towards the King were complicated, true, but there was no set expectations of how to feel about Canute, he was free to make it up as he went along. Not the way some part of him wondered why he just… didn’t really care about Jomsborg.

From what Thorkell had told him (and he had told him plenty on the journey here, the drunk asshole), Jomsborg was his ancestral home in many ways. It was where his father lived, where his mother was born. It was where his sister was born. Where his grandfather ruled, where his… well, if he had any uncles or aunts, they would be here too. And cousins, as well, he supposed. This is where most of his family would be. But he didn’t… care.

That was weird, wasn’t it?

He hated thinking about it, mostly because he hated thinking about emotions and feelings and other things, but when you were stuck on a boat for a few days, there tended to be very little else to do. When he was with Askeladd’s Band, he’d usually spend the boat trips planning for his duel, going through it step by step - how he’d start, how Askeladd would probably respond, how he’d respond to that. Here, he was just stuck staring morosely at the horizon, waiting for the sight of docks and clouds to announce their arrival at Jomsborg.

“Are you worried?” Canute’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts, and he didn’t bother turning his head to face the King, just a few paces behind him.

Irritation flared under his skin at the genuine, heartfelt concern. “Tch. What do I have to be worried about?” There’s not much bite to his words, not how they’d normally be. He’s less annoyed at being bothered and more annoyed that Canute’s concerned. He’s the King’s bodyguard, not the other way around.

Canute stepped up to his side, quiet and graceful and all too regal. With the wind blowing in his hair like this, he seems like a character from a bard’s saga. “It’s okay if you are,” he replied simply, ignoring Thorfinn’s scowl.

“I’m _ not _ worried. Just thinking.” It’s a weak rebuttal, all things considered. ‘Thinking’ may as well be ‘worrying’ for Thorfinn, after all. He let the silence grow between them, save for the sound of waves gently lapping against the wood. “I don’t know why this is important.” And it is important. He’s not blind to the way they look at him now, to the whispers. Before, there had always been a sense of disdain from the more ‘noble’ members of the Court, as though Thorfinn were just some mud the King had tracked in with his boots. Now… now there was calculation there. Now, it was like being surrounded by Askeladd’s.

And he _ hated _ it.

Canute gave him an amused glance, a slight quirk to the corner of his mouth, and for a brief moment, Thorfinn debates pushing him into the sea, King or no King, weird complicated feelings or not. “If you are truly the grandson of the Jomsviking’s Chieftain,” and he is, there is no denial of it for Sigvaldi and Thorkell both have acknowledged him, “then that would make you a direct member of the Jomsviking nobility, or as close to ‘nobility’ as they would recognise.”

“And? I don’t get why everyone’s making such a fuss about it.” There’s that calculating gaze now. He _ hates _ it. Since then, everyone has been looking at him like that, weighing and assessing. Measuring. Askeladd looked at everyone like that, and when he sees those eyes, all he can hear is that smug bastard’s voice. At least Canute’s is… softer. More understanding. Caring, even.

“In terms of discipline and skill at arms, the Jomsvikings are the greatest single force of warriors in the Baltic sea. Perhaps even the world.” And he, at least, answers and explains instead of smugly smiling and patting him on the head.

(The feelings brought up by the idea of Canute patting him on the head are… distressingly complicated)

“Tch.” He’d heard rumours, whispers of it, when he was amongst Askeladd’s band. Even fought alongside the Jomsviking’s once or twice. The best he could say of them was that they _ were _ quiet and disciplined, unlike the rowdy bunch of raiders he was surrounded by. “They didn’t seem that special.”

The King doesn’t respond at first, but that same infuriating quirk at the corners of his mouth is there. “To you, perhaps,” is his reply.

He has absolutely no idea what Canute means by it.

* * *

The welcome that’s laid out for them is lavish, menacing, and intimidating - to wit, it is everything Canute expected it to be. Rows of Jomsvikings in their faceless helms and cloaks salute them as they disembark, and there to welcome them more formally is a familiar face.

“Welcome to Jomsborg, your Majesty.” Floki bowed before him with a small flourish, sweeping an arm along the path. “Chieftain Sigvaldi is eagerly awaiting you within the Fest Hall.”

Canute nodded, his expression blankly indifferent. ‘Eagerly awaiting’. He very much doubted that. The invitation had been to Thorfinn alone. He hadn’t even bothered to include Canute - even Thorkell, Sigvaldi’s own brother, had been invited, but the King they served? No, Sigvaldi thought little of Canute. But that was fine. He understood why. He was still young in their eyes. Inexperienced. ‘Untested’. They would learn.

He would show them.

“Ha! Siggy sent _ you _ to greet us, Squarehead?” Thorkell leaned forward with a taunting leer on his face, almost daring Floki to respond. “A Commander of the Jomsvikings, being sent as an errand boy~”

It was a diplomatic gesture, if nothing else. Floki was a familiar face, and for all his obsequiousness, he was a deft diplomat and negotiator. All of that said, Canute didn’t trust him particularly much - he had been one of Sweyn’s advisors, after all, and he’d nearly had Thorfinn killed.

And when Floki’s eyes moved to Thorfinn, ignoring Thorkell’s taunts, there was that same look on his face. A brief flash, gone in an instant, like a bolt of the Lord’s lightning but it left a thunderous boom all the same. There was hatred, in those eyes. He wondered at times if it was simply that Thorfinn had drawn his blades against the King, that if he judged him as a traitor then… but Thorkell had turned against King Sweyn as well, and Canute doubted that Floki cared so much for him that he would hate the man who scarred his face.

“We shouldn’t keep Sigvaldi waiting then,” Canute said smoothly, brushing past Floki. Thorfinn hadn’t seemed to catch onto Floki’s ire, and it was probably for the best that he avoided any confrontations for as long as possible. There were slated to be here for three days - plenty of time to avoid a single man, however highly ranked.

Floki smiled at him, moving to walk at Canute’s side. “Of course, your Majesty.”

Inside the almost gaudily decorated Hall, more Jomsvikings line the walls and balconies, but now many of them bare their faces - the captains and officers, no doubt. Waiting for them on his throne was an imposing man, somewhere in his fifties by Canute’s estimation. Sigvaldi, Chieftain to the Jomsvikings.

Floki stepped to the side, already winding up to introduce them, but before he could get more than a “Presenting, King-”, he was interrupted.

“Siggy!” Thorkell cried out, a wide grin on his face, “It’s been too long! How’ve ya been?”

It’s not the introduction Canute wanted to begin with, but for all his brashness, Thorkell has not stepped past him, so he decides then and there to roll with it. Controlling Thorkell was always a lost cause - it was better to point him, and be pulled along than it was to try and harness him more directly. And besides. Blindsiding Floki was no small benefit.

“Thorkell,” Sigvaldi replied, gesturing for Floki to stand down, “I am pleased to see you in good health, despite all your escapades.” He’s smiling, at least, but Canute can’t quite tell if it’s a true smile at this distance.

“I thank you for your gracious hospitality, Sigvaldi.” As interesting as it would be to let Thorkell steamroll his way through everything, Canute is still his liege, and he must be seen to remain in control, especially now that he’s meeting another ruler in their seat of power. Whilst Jomsborg is not truly a kingdom, he’d be foolish to condescend to their Chieftain in their very hall.

That said, he’s not going to prostrate himself either.

“King Canute,” Sigvaldi answered, and their gazes meet. Canute will meet him as an equal, and it is as much a challenge as it is an honour. “I am honoured you came. Your late father, his Majesty King Sweyn, was a guest of mine many a feast.” And the challenge has been answered, it seemed. The words, the voice, the gaze - all of it is judging. Canute is still too young, too new for Sigvaldi to recognise him as a worthy successor to Sweyn.

And then Sigvaldi’s gaze moved to his faithful shadow. “And you must be Thorfinn Karlsfeni.” The smile on his face stretches just a touch wider. “Come, step forward. Let me see you.”

To Canute’s relief, Thorfinn does so without any further prompting (although Canute was quite prepared to elbow him as surreptitiously as he could). He’s still scowling, but at this point, Canute’s well aware it would take a small miracle to wipe that scowl of his face in a situation like this.

Every eye is on Thorfinn now, even his own. He’s far from the scruffy viking raider Canute first met him as. His hair has been carefully washed by servants for many moons now, and brushed and combed into flaxen threads and left to hang to his shoulders. A coat of fur sat on his shoulders to ward off the bitter cold, and underneath, his chainmail gleamed in the torchlight. In terms of appearance, he was every part the Jarl they might’ve expected. In terms of behaviour…

Well, one could hope that a surly, standoffish warrior was just what they thought Thorfinn would be.

Sigvaldi beamed at Thorfinn. “It is good to finally meet you, grandson! I have heard many tales of your exploits on the battlefield.”

There’s still no response from Thorfinn, and Canute quietly realised that it’s because his faithful Thegn has no idea what to actually say in response. He’s just started trying to formulate a way to move out of this situation that won’t offend Sigvaldi when Thorfinn does respond.

“Nice to meet you too, old man.”

Everything and everyone froze, save perhaps Thorfinn himself. He stood there, quietly and calmly, arms folded over his chest and completely unbothered. He’s not quite scowling as much, but he did glare at a few of the officers and commanders.

The moment of stillness passed, and Sigvaldi let out a great roar of laughter. “Tonight, let us feast to welcome our guests!” He announced, raising a hand as thralls and servants alike began to hurry along. “I look forward to learning about your exploits in greater detail, grandson. Haraldr, Thorin. Show our guests to their quarters.”

It’s only when the doors are shut and the two of them are alone that Canute felt safe enough to turn on Thorfinn with a questioning look. “‘Nice to meet you too, old man’?” he echoed, somewhere between questioning and impressed.

“What?” Thorfinn grumbled, only half as defensive as his words might’ve suggested, “I just treated him like he was my grandpa.”

Canute bit his tongue, rather wisely. Attempting to explain the finer points of diplomacy and decorum to Thorfinn wouldn’t achieve anything. Even if Thorfinn learned anything, he’d be just as likely to discard it out of hand because he just didn’t care.

* * *

They’d been at Jomsborg for all of a day, and Thorfinn has already taken back all of the tentative appreciation he had for the Jomsvikings. They may be disciplined and quiet and less rambunctiously rowdy as the usual viking, but they were something much worse.

They were fucking _ obsessed _ with him.

He couldn’t go anywhere without at least a handful of Jomsvikings staring and whispering like a bunch of curious village girls. At least amongst vikings, they would ignore him when it became clear he had no intention of joining them in their stupidity, but as far as the Jomsviking’s seemed to be concerned, he was some kind of… celebrity. Even Canute, the _ King _, got less stares and attention. The only person who seemed to be treated with the same level of curiousity and obsession was Thorkell. 

The feasting was due to begin soon, and the thralls and servants were still setting out the food. Canute himself was busy praying in his quarters, and whilst normally Thorfinn would be nearby, waiting for him to finish, it could scarcely be called a walk from their quarters to the Fest Hall. So surely it wouldn’t be an issue if he found the time to ask one question of Thorkell? And so it was, with a grudging heart, that Thorfinn found himself staring up at his great-uncle. 

“Ho, Thorfinn,” Thorkell greeted, towering over him even though he was sitting down with a horn of mead in his hands. “What can I do for my favourite great-nephew?”

He almost bit back that he was his only great-nephew but he’s not actually sure if that’s true. “How the fuck do I get everyone to stop staring at me?” He’s tried all of his usual tactics, which basically amounted to presenting himself to be as unapproachable as he can. Vicious glaring, abrasive address, unspoken threats… if anything, it only _ encouraged _ them.

Thorkell let out a raucous laugh. He failed to see the humour in it. “Of course they’re staring!” He leaned forward, pointing a calloused finger at his eyepatch with a friendly grin on his face. “You’re the one who took my eye, after all.”

He swallowed the words that had bubbled up in his throat, the curt dismissal of what he’d done. In the end, it hadn’t been _ his _skill at arms that had brought Thorkell to his knees. “So?” He grumbled instead, “I’m not going to go around taking theirs as well.”

“Haha! That’d be a sight, nephew!” The term of endearment burned, like a branding iron against his flesh. “They’re just curious. Can you blame them, Thorfinn? The mighty Karlsefni who defeated me in a duel - they probably expected someone bigger.” Thorkell stroked his beard with a hand, not bothering to hide the teasing grin. There’s none of the bite that Askeladd would’ve had, and yet, Thorfinn wishes it were there)

“I don’t fucking care what they expected,” he snapped. Leif had always been quite satisfied to have people whispering about him, murmuring. Sitting by a fire and having people hang on his every word. Once upon a time, Thorfinn wanted to be the same, to bask in the adoration and attention of friends, family and strangers alike. Now it’s just _ irritating _. “I just want them to leave me the fuck alone.”

“They’ll get over it soon enough,” Thorkell said dismissively, flapping a hand at him. “Just ignore them. Sit down, have some mead. It’ll take your mind off things.”

He eyed the table of meat and drink with suspicion, as though it were a deadly trap waiting to ensnare him. He’d seen what had happened to Canute when he’d fallen for Thorkell’s bait, and he’d always avoided getting drunk - but he had always wanted to keep himself sharp in case Askeladd tried anything underhanded.

… It wouldn’t hurt, would it? He wasn’t like Canute - he’d be fine. One drink, whilst Canute was praying.

* * *

It was rare for Canute to be without Thorfinn’s presence, and rarer still for him to find it necessary to seek him out in those times. Thorfinn was by his side nearly every waking moment, save for those few where Canute desired privacy - usually when he was praying, not that the Lord ever answered. Not that he had anything to say to the Lord. But when he emerged from his private quarters, Thorfinn was not waiting for him by the door as he usually was. That in itself was not too strange, for they’d be feasting tonight, and if Thorfinn were particularly hungry, he might’ve gone ahead. He hadn’t ever done that _ before _, but it seemed reasonable enough for Canute to accept.

The Fest Hall was full of raucous energy and shouting as usual, and he deftly and smoothly moved to his assigned seat, close to Sigvaldi but not too close. A position of honour, but decidedly not close enough that he could threaten the Chieftain. Thorkell’s seat was empty, which in itself concerning, but given that Thorfinn’s _ was _…

It was then, and only then, that he realised that there was a large ring of people gathered in the center of the hall. It was a testament to his countenance and bearing that when he approached, stone faced and cold, the Jomsvikings parted as the Red Sea did before Moses. And in the center of that ring, he found what he had begun to fear he might.

“Thorkell,” he said ‘quietly’ - loud enough to be heard over the voices, but not so loud as to be shouting himself, “_ Explain. _”

His thegn turned to him with a massive grin, mead sloshing out of a horn. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he crowed, gesturing a hand towards the spectacle. “Ten challengers down, and he hasn’t even been hit once!”

_ That _ , Canute thought quietly, _ is hardly the point _ . He’s not sure if he should be glad that Thorfinn is behaving more independently or frustrated that it had to be like this. “... Is he _ drunk _?” And now all of those thoughts are on the pyre. He’s never seen Thorfinn so much as take a sip of wine.

“I offered him some mead. Didn’t think he’d actually take it, never seemed like the type for it. He seemed to like the taste though, because he had a few more.” Thorkell let out a whooping laugh as the eleventh Jomsviking was thrown into the crowd. A twelfth emerged from the ring to take his place. “S’good for him. He needed to loosen up anyhow, blow off some steam.”

There’s a truth to Thorkell’s words that Canute can’t deny, but brawling? _ Drunken _ Brawling? He watched intently, and with no small amount of confusion and curiousity, as Thorfinn swayed on his feet, unsteady like a ship in stormy seas. The challenger is head and shoulders taller, but reach means nothing to Thorfinn, not when he moves like the crack of a whip. The Jomsviking’s arm slipped past over a shoulder, and Thorfinn was nothing but a brief whirl of movement and a cry of ‘HAAH!’. The Twelfth is on the ground, groaning softly, and a Thirteenth is already stepping forward. Alcohol, it seemed, has done little to dull the edge of Thorfinn’s skill.

Against his better judgement, he’s beginning to think this might be for the best. Thorfinn needed to unwind, he needed to demonstrate that he was no mere ‘Boy King’. Not _ quite _ the show of power he’d begun to plan, but for all their discipline and training, the Jomsvikings were still Vikings in the end - and there was no greater evidence of that truth than Thorkell himself.

Still, there are limits, and he’s beginning to think they’ve reached them as Thorfinn wrestled the Fifteenth Jomsviking to the ground and began bending his arm at an unfortunate angle. He stepped forward rather calmly, ignoring Thorkell’s cheering behind him (he was absolutely _ not _ about to participate, no matter how enthusiastic the man was) as he advanced with measured strides.

“Thorfinn,” he called, firm but soft. He does not bother raising his voice, not even to be heard past the din. He does not need to.

Like a dog called by his master, Thorfinn released the Jomsviking from his grip and rolled to his feet in a whirl of movement. He swayed slightly as he did, but his eyes were keenly focused even through the haze of inebriation. He does not kneel, and Canute does not expect him to. An overt display of submission to Canute’s power and authority would not have been unappreciated, but the wildness of Thorfinn serves just as well.

He took a quiet moment to study his loyal hound, the subtle flush of his cheeks and the loose fluidity of his stance. There’s none of the tension that Thorfinn usually had, more languid and relaxed. There’s still a challenge in his eyes that would not normally be present. The rush of combat? The haze of inebriation? Regardless of why, it won’t do. He has to show the Jomsvikings that he is the one who holds the reins. He has to snuff out the flame, at least for now.

He reached out with a hand, slowly but almost carelessly… and placed it gently atop of Thorfinn’s head. “That’s enough,” he declared firmly, letting the moment sink into his loyal hound’s psyche before turning on his heel and moving back towards his seat. He doesn’t meet Sigvaldi’s gaze - doesn’t even look in his general direction - and certainly doesn’t bother checking if Thorfinn was following him. He doesn’t need to.

“Spoilsport,” Thorkell grumbled, just loud enough to be heard, but even he is heading back towards the table now at his King’s unspoken command.

“Jomsvikings, honored guests - a toast,” Sigvaldi declared, rising from his chair with a booming voice. Canute kept the smile from his face. “To the warrior, Thorfinn Karlsefni! One day, the skalds will sing of him!”

There was a resounding cheer, and Canute raised his own goblet with a sense of triumph. This had been a resounding success, and all of his goals had been more or less achieved. They’d forged closer ties to the Jomsvikings, and established himself as a King in his own right. Stories had the power to shape the hearts of men, and just as the story of Thorfinn’s duel against Thorkell had shaped his reputation as ‘Karlsefni’, so too would this one shape Canute’s own. Thorfinn had demonstrated his prowess against fifteen soldiers of one of the most widely renowned fighting force in the Baltic Sea, and Thorkell himself was a figure already approaching legends.

_ Behold, Jomsvikings, at the great and terrible beasts I have tamed. _

He felt a finger poke him in the side as he took a measured sip of his wine, and he turned to give Thorfinn a questioning, but silent, look.

No longer in the heat of a fight and with the challenging fire long snuffed from him now, Thorfinn seemed… not quite subdued, but quiet. Lowered. _ Submissive _, even, or as close to submissive as Canute had ever seen him. “You pat me on the head,” he said quietly, with an expression of almost childish confusion and frustration.

It’s… _ cute _.

“You were behaving like a dog,” Canute replied primly, turning back to his meal. “If you act like an animal, you’ll be treated like one.”

Thorfinn didn’t reply to that, staring at Canute with that same mix of confused frustration for at least a minute longer. Eventually, hunger won out, fueled by the smell of roasted meats and fresh baked bread.

He’ll have to do it more often, if only just to enjoy Thorfinn’s reactions to it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reaffirmation of the bond is followed by the breaking of peace. War returns to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been (faithfully) sticking to... I was going to say the 'canon' timeline, but it's technically the actual historical timeline? Honestly, I completely forgot that Aethelred came back to fight Canute (historically speaking, he actually succeeds - at first. then Canute comes back with a bigger army and finishes the job).
> 
> So after a tenuous, fractious peace - war reigns once again.
> 
> Speaking of weird timeline wonkiness - Sigvaldi is Thorkell's brother, and Thorkell is 50 when we first see him. Sigvaldi was chieftain in Thors' time, and was still chieftain when he died. Presumably, he would have to retire at 50 like other Jomsviking's and probably should have retired by now. I did not realise this at the time.
> 
> Or are chiefs the exception? Floki's whole thing is that he won't be accepted because he's about to hit 50, but is it a 'if you do get accepted then you get to stick around'? Oh well, who cares. These are quibbly details that aren't important.
> 
> The original first scene I had in mind was Canute asking Thorfinn if he believed in God but I couldn't get it to work and sound right? I really liked it though, so I probably kept trying for longer than I should've. Oh well. Kill your darlings is a maxim, after all.

The air is quiet and still. They're a good distance away from the fortress of Jomsborg proper, and the grassy fields seem peaceful and almost pleasant.

"It's around here," Thorkell announced, sauntering slowly behind them, "Thors was buried around here."

It's odd to hear those words. On some level, he knows Thors was buried somewhere. He remembered it being mentioned - that his body was handed over, given to someone whose name has faded from his memory. The moment his father fell is crystallized in his memories, but the moments that proceeded after are hazy and flimsy. Those days hadn't felt real - still don't feel real - and nothing had really mattered to him outside of his revenge.

"The Jomsviking's buried him here? Outside the Fort?" Canute asked, a few feet away. His voice didn't quite reach Thorfinn in this moment, and so he paid the question no mind, nor did he heed Thorkell's answer.

"Aye, that we did. Thors died a deserter, even if Siggy had offered clemency."

The grass is soft against his skin. He knelt down to run his fingers through the blades, wondering if he could tell the difference between the grass of a grave, however unmarked, or ordinary grass. It was a thought soon dismissed. How many graves had he crossed and left behind? The grass was always the same then, and it would be the same there.

"And Askeladd brought his body back?"

"What? Nah, I probably woulda killed him if he did."

Does he even have a right to stand here? To face his father, after everything that's happened? 

_ You have no enemies. No one in the world is your enemy. There is no one you need to hurt. _

His words echo in his mind as he knelt in the empty field, and the burning gaze fills his vision._ No one, Dad? They killed you, even though you cast away your sword. They would've killed us. _He'd seen what happened to the 'weak' - the strong took what they wanted, up to and including their lives. What were they, if not enemies? What recourse did they have, but violence?

_ Why didn't you fight them, Dad? Even if it meant killing them… why couldn't you live? _

There's a presence at his side, and he doesn't have to look up to know it was Canute. The King doesn't say anything, not at first, and for a long minute they remain in silence.

"Hey, Thorfinn! Don't you think Canute kinda looks like Thors did, sometimes?" Thorkell called out, tilting his head with a curious grin. "Remember?"

Thorfinn turned his head to look up at Canute, whose gaze can only really be described as puzzled and bemused in this particular moment. He knew what Thorkell was referring to, however, and it was a connection he'd previously made himself. "He does," he conceded with a wry smile.

"Right? Right?" Thorkell exclaimed, pointing excitedly. "They've got the same energy!"

Same energy… Thorfinn could see it. But his father and Canute were very different, he thought quietly. If it were Canute, standing on that boat before Askeladd… Canute would not have died.

(Well, if truly were Canute, he doubted very much that he would've been able to resist them at all.)

"Given the stories I have heard of Thors, I fail to see what 'energy' he and I could possibly have in common," Canute replied dryly, brow quirked.

"He was powerful," he said quietly, placing a hand on the dry soil, "and there was a determination in his gaze that's hard to explain."

"Then I will take it as a compliment."

Thorfinn turned his head to face the King. "Canute," he said.

The King did not answer verbally, instead turning a questioning look onto his Head Thegn.

"Why do we fight?" he asked quietly, eyes locked onto his, and in his gaze, there's the beginnings of a flame. "All the death. All the killing. What is it for?" He's never asked Canute before, even if he's wondered before, but here, with the memory of his father burning in his mind, he has to know. What is it that Canute sees? What is it that his father saw?

(What is it that feels like it's just out of his reach, so close, and yet so far?)

Canute didn't answer at first, but when he did, it was with all the weight and determination that Thorfinn has come to expect of him. "Do you know what it means to love, Thorfinn?" His voice is soft, but it echoed out across the empty field, "To 'love' is to be without hatred or prejudice. We are, all of us, without love, and so it is God's will that we suffer. For our sins, we are denied Paradise." Canute raised a hand, clenching it into a fist. "So I will defy God. I will create Paradise, here on this earth, for all those God has abandoned."

Thorfinn did not respond, and in a way that was response enough. He understood now, in some small way.

The King regarded him in silence, and then he extended an open hand. "Will you help me in this, Thorfinn? Will you defy God with me?"

Thorfinn glanced at Canute's offered hand, and took it with a dry snort. "Why are you even bothering to ask?" he answered, "I'm your thegn, after all." _ You were wrong, Dad. You should've fought. _

That earned him a smile from the King, and Thorfinn's not entirely sure why he's so pleased to see it.

And then the moment was promptly shattered as Thorkell loudly reminded them that he was, in fact, still present. "Oi! What're you two talkin' 'bout?" he called, apparently having walked some ways away. "I think it might've been closer to here; the rock over here looks familiar."

"It doesn't matter," Thorfinn called back, hands shoved into his pockets as he began to walk away, "I'm done here, anyway." 

* * *

Canute slid into the chair across from Sigvaldi, eyeing the decanter of mead with mild distaste even as the thrall, a pretty young blonde woman, dutifully poured its contents into two finely carved drinking horns.

"Leave us," Sigvaldi ordered, waving a dismissive hand, as he reached for his horn with the other.

Although he has no love for drink (not after the… issues it has led to in the past), Canute cannot refuse the hospitality offered so he took his horn as well, and drank a single acknowledging mouthful whilst he waited for Sigvaldi to begin. It was sweet, but light on his tongue. If it weren't for the other effects, he might've finished it.

"How old do you think I am, Canute?"

It's just as well that he had only taken the one mouthful, or he might've spit it out. "I would not be able to say for sure," he began, mentally assessing the situation. Considering Thorkell's age… "I would hazard a guess that you are reaching your fiftieth year soon." He might've ventured a guess that Sigvaldi had passed that point, but just going off appearances, he seemed younger than Thorkell.

"Heh. Not a bad guess. You are close; this coming summer, I will be forty six." And after a moment, Sigvaldi seemed to age before Canute's eyes, slumping back in his chair. "I am getting old, Canute. My time is coming soon."

Canute remained silent, sensing that there was a point Sigvaldi was building to. An admission of his age - his weakness - was not something the Chieftain would have done lightly.

"All warriors of the Jomsviking Order must retire at fifty years," he continued, "Soon, my days as Chieftain of the Jomsviking's will come to an end. I must choose a successor."

… "You mean to make Thorfinn your successor," Canute said calmly, keeping his hands still atop the table.

Sigvaldi met his gaze, cold steel against the tempered fire. "Aye," he answered, "I do. He is my grandson, and the son of one of the mightiest warriors to grace these halls. Already, his reputation is known across the Baltic Sea."

"And currently serving as my Head Thegn." There were more polite, diplomatic ways to phrase his intent, but some part of Canute was… angry? The idea that Sigvaldi could just lay claim to Thorfinn, grandfather or not,_ burned_.

The Chieftain of the Jomsviking didn't acknowledge the bite to Canute's words. "He is young," he countered, "for all my grandson's talent and skill, he is still lacking in experience."

Inwardly, Canute began to seethe._ How dare you claim such familiarity! You, who had not even laid eyes upon him until days ago!_ "He has performed admirably in his position," he rebutted, aware of the growing ice in his tone.

"I'm happy to hear that, your Majesty. But you would be better suited with one more experienced in matters of strategy and statecraft." Sigvaldi raised his horn, eyes still locked onto Canute's as he drank. "My grandson is talented and skilled warrior, but I do not imagine that his time amongst the pirates has taught him much in the way of how to oversee a realm - or how to address another King."

Canute narrowed his eyes just slightly. "And who would I replace him with?" he fired back, "There are none in my hosts I could trust in his position."

"You have Thorkell," Sigvaldi replied, but Canute could tell neither of them were particularly convinced of that. Thorkell was not loyal to anyone bar his own goals. "I would happily second you one of my captains if it pleases you. Floki worked closely with your father, King Sweyn - I'm sure he would serve you well."

Canute would not trust Floki as far as he could get Thorkell to throw the man, and the suggestion burned him almost as much as the idea of surrendering - _abandoning_ \- Thorfinn. Pieces were beginning to fall into place regarding the Captain of the Jomsviking's, and Canute was not fond of the picture they formed. "I have little interest in your captains, Sigvaldi," he declared, rising up from his seat.

"Even if it meant an alliance between us?"

Canute stiffened.

"The full cooperation and allegiance of the Jomsviking's. Not only during my tenure - my grandson is clearly loyal to you."

The Jomsviking's were one of the greatest fighting forces in the Baltic Sea. His grip on England was still tenuous, and part of the reason he had even come here was in the hope of forging closer ties… 

"_ No _." He turned to give Sigvaldi his full attention, boring into the man's eyes with his own. What the Chieftain saw in him seemed to startle him, but Canute could hardly be concerned with what he was thinking in this moment. "Thorfinn is my Head Thegn, and there is no other man in this world or the next that I would trust in his place."

_Now that you see how he shines, you_ **_dare_** _covet him for yourselves._

Sigvaldi recovered from his momentary shock with the smooth experience of the wise ruler he was. "I understand," he said, not bothering to hide his disappointment - nor his respect. "Please enjoy the rest of your stay in Jomsborg, your Majesty."

Canute swept his cloak around him, and left. Thorfinn fell into step behind the moment he crossed the threshold of the door.

Tomorrow, they would set sail for England once again, and likely never return to Jomsborg.

* * *

The trip was not productive in the ways that Canute had expected it to be, but it is productive all the same. He understands more than he did before, of the tangled threads of the past that still bind at Thorfinn and choke him. More than anything, he finds there are still men in this world that can bring burning hatred to his heart.

He has long wondered who it was that would try to assassinate his Head Thegn, and now he suspects he has an answer. Now, the only mystery left is the motive.

* * *

Winter was beginning to ease. It would've been premature to say that Spring had arrived just yet, but in Thorfinn's admittedly amateur estimation, it was not long. A week, perhaps. But with winter's end came the return of duties. Canute (and by extension, Thorfinn, and to a lesser degree, Thorkell) was in meeting after meeting after meeting with the commanders of various hosts and forces. He had paid little attention at first, but Canute seemed determined to get his input on matters more and more, slowly forcing him to consider the state of affairs and offer what insight or advice he thought helpful. Many of Canute's other vassals in these meetings seemed to think little of him, given that nearly all of them were at least twice his age, but nobody had yet dared to say anything on the matter.

The Housecarls, on the other hand, were not so reticent with their tongues.

As the King's Head Thegn, it fell to Thorfinn to manage his Housecarls - choosing them from candidates, ensuring their training, and acting as their overall leader. Whilst many of them were not as old as the chieftain's and generals, even those close to Thorfinn's own age were much more physically imposing in stature. Although Thorfinn could not claim to care much for their reasoning, he suspected that was at least partly why they were challenging him.

"_You're_ Thorfinn Karlsefni?" the man growled, arms folded over his chest with an unimpressed look on his face. "Is this meant to be a joke?"

"Are you laughing?" Thorfinn countered, giving him a disinterested look. He didn't know his name yet - frankly, he hadn't bothered asking any of the gathered volunteers their names. He'd bother learning who they were if they managed to prove themselves enough.

The man sneered. "There is no way I'm going to take orders from some brat half my size, 'Karlsefni' or not." He glared heatedly, summoning all the venom and anger he could manage. "You must've gotten lucky against Thorkell."

There was a minute twitch to Thorfinn's disinterested expression, and the warrior seemed to pick up on it, because he pushed on.

"Look at you. You aren't even big enough to wield a proper sword!"

Thorfinn exhaled slowly, meeting the man's heated glare with a cold, impassive look. "What's your name?"

The man puffed his chest out. "Thorgil, son of Iron-Fist Ketil," he proudly announced, clearly expecting recognition for that fact. Some of the other warriors seemed in awe of that, but Thorfinn couldn't claim to have heard of the name.

Nor could he have claimed to have really cared at all. He was within his guard the instant he had finished speaking. He was merciless in his strikes - beginning with the throat, followed by the stomach, the side of a knee, his elbow, and finally his jaw. Thorfinn watched him collapse to the ground, gasping desperately and trying to recover. "Thorgil, son of Ketil," he repeated, walking back to his previous position. "An assassin can strike at any moment. Be more wary."

There was a cry of frustration and fury from behind him, and when Thorfinn whipped around to confront the source, he was faced with a furious Thorgil barreling down towards him with his sword drawn.

He grabbed his wrist, wrenching his arm back and pinning him down against the ground with his own momentum with a single smooth movement. In terms of pure physical strength, Thorgil was more than a match, but with Thorfinn's entire weight bearing down on his arm, there wasn't much he could do without breaking it.

The sound of applause cut through the scene, soft yet commanding. "An impressive performance," Canute declared, cold eyes regarding the scene with the beginnings of a smirk playing at his lips.

There was a round of shocked murmurs and surprised gasps, and the warriors rushed to salute the King, with the sole exceptions of Thorfinn and Thorgil, the former still restraining the latter. "Glad you enjoyed the show," Thorfinn muttered, showing a shocking lack of respect and decorum.

Canute didn't respond, advancing slowly until he was only a foot or two away from the pair of them. His gaze lowered to meet Thorgil's, peering down at him in judgement. The light seemed to halo his crowned head at this particular angle, and it almost made him seem angelic - but if he were an angel, he was an angel of the Old Testament who brought fire and ruin to those judged unworthy. "You drew your sword against mine," he said coldly, neither accusing nor judging but all the way damning. "Tell me why I shouldn't have you executed for it."

Thorfinn flicked his gaze up at Canute, and then down at Thorgil who was not responding except to grit his teeth. Then, without really thinking about it, he stepped off of him. "Because he's your newest Housecarl."

_That_ got everyone's attention. It was a rare moment that Thorfinn managed to leave Canute speechless, even if it was only for a moment. "... Him?" Canute echoed, raising an eyebrow, the rest of the question left unspoken.

"Yes," Thorfinn replied dryly, "him." He wasn't really sure what made him say that, but now that he's said it, he's going to roll with it. "Good swordwork."

Canute gave him a long, questioning look, then finally looked down at Thorgil again. "... after he tried to kill you?" For there was no doubt that was what Thorgil had intended.

"S'bold of him," he answered, folding his arms over his chest. "Besides. You told me I had to choose them, so I choose him."

At that answer, the King could only frown... and then let out a quiet sigh. "Very well," he said, turning to leave, "if he _is_ your choice..."

Thorfinn watched him leave, before turning to nudge the still-prone Thorgil with his foot. "What are you waiting for? Get up. As for the rest of you - I haven't got all day, so just come at me whenever you're ready."

* * *

In the end, Thorfinn hand picked a total of six of the warriors to serve as Canute's Housecarls. Thorgil, Ulfgrim, Snorri, Gunnar, Hjalmar and Torvald. Each of them was head and shoulders taller than Thorfinn, and each of them had been laid out flat by him.

It was perhaps just in time, as only three days afterwards, Aethelred 'the Unready' had returned from his exile in Normandy, called back by the English nobles and chiefs to contest Canute's claim to the throne.

War had officially been declared once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Floki in Jomsborg pointing at a picture of Thorfinn like "I want that twink OBLITERATED!"
> 
> Also introducing Thorgil! I scoured the chapters for a reference on when he joined Canute's household, but he seems like he'd be about right to join now.
> 
> One of the main 'goals' in the story (for me, at least) is to have Thorfinn and Canute slowly guide each other to a... compromise of sorts, the way they did in the manga, only from different angles. Thors' position of absolute pacifism is very understandable considering his past, but it leads to his death at Askeladd's hands, having ultimately achieved... nothing. Canute's determination and ruthlessness led to the battle at Ketil's Farm (and presumably, worse at other times).


End file.
